We'll always have Paris.

…. Suddenly, I’m stopped in my tracks. Across the street I catch my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, peeking over an apartment building, It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I know that sounds like hyperbole but the sight of that structure rising up from behind the classic architecture of Paris absolutely astounds me. If a chunk of the space station fell on me right now I would die a happy man. I wouldn’t be quite so happy if I were being eaten by a shark or staked out on an ant bed covered in honey but somehow space debris and the lasting image of the Eiffel Tower would be eternally satisfying.

Paris. The “City with the big shoulders”. The “Stockyard to the world”. No, wait. That’s Chicago. This is the home of Edith Piaf and Josephine Baker (no matter that she was American). Crepes and berets. The Louvre. A city where even the sewers are considered works of art.

I look around me and take in the rest of the neighborhood. There is a restaurant on the corner that looks nice. It’s almost 5:30 pm and I’m getting awfully hungry. I drag myself and my bag inside. I immediately feel as if I have made a grave mistake. This is no tourist haunt. The staff interacts familiarly with the diners, while at the bar the bartender dispenses drinks and good conversation with equal aplomb. It reminds me of Mistral’s, my favorite restaurant back home. Not knowing what the custom is for securing a table I hold up one finger and manage to stammer out, “Une table pour un, sil vous plait.” (A table for one, please). I expect to be hustled off to some dank corner in the back of the place so that the preferred regular costumers can have the all-important view of the Eiffel Tower. Instead the waiter takes my bag (albeit the smaller one) and leads me to a corner table right up front next to the picture window. I thank him and then add my standard opening apology of “Desolee. Je ne parle pas Francaise.” to which he responds, “Monsieur. Would you prefer German or English?”

“German naturallment. Just kidding. English please.” From then on we are the best of friends. That is how I came to be sitting here in Le Beaupre sipping a wonderful glass of red wine on my first night in Paris.

There are currently 5 or 6 dogs in the restaurant. Say what you will about the French but you’ve got to love a country that will let you bring your dog into a restaurant. Most of them just curl up under the table and go to sleep. There is a Jack Russell terrier two tables from me that is up on his hind legs looking into a stroller at a baby. It makes me think of Sammy, my dog. As I write this, Jennifer, with whom I share custody of Sam, is planning to move to Hong Kong with her new husband. Naturally she wants to take Sam with her. Selfishly, I’m not thrilled with the prospect of him being in China for 15 months. I think that if they had been transferred to Paris I would whole-heartedly give my blessings. They love their doggies here. He’d have a great life and would look good in a beret.

Looking around the restaurant I see couples holding hands, leaning in to kiss each other. Families with babies and dogs. Older people sipping wine and sharing memories among friends. This city reeks of romance. Heck, I love me.


Every time my waiter, Serge, leaves to tend to another customer I sneak a peek at my French phrasebook. When he came to take my order I tried “Qu’est-ce que vous recommandez?” (What do you recommend?) After tasting the fish I responded with “Mes compliments au chef.” (You can figure that one out yourself) and when the crème brulee arrived I threw my hands up and enthusiastically exclaimed “C’est meiller que la cuisine de ma mere!” (This is better than my mother’s cooking) In all fairness to my Mother I don’t think she ever made a crème brulee in her life.

The main course is now finis and I await my crème brulee and espresso. Throughout the meal, Serge has been very helpful. So much so that I brace myself for the moment when Parisian tourism authorities burst in and drag him away for displaying civility and courtesy to an American tourist.

With dinner winding up I needed to find a place to stay for the night. I ask Serge if he knows of a place nearby named the Eiffel Hotel. I had seen it on the Internet. The rooms were reasonably priced and from some of them you could see the top of the Eiffel Tower sticking up in the distance.

“You mean the Hilton?” He asks.

I almost do a spit take with my Bordeaux. I try explaining that I would prefer cheaper accommodations as I turn my empty wallet upside down and shake it. (I actually had plenty of cash inside but I held the bills against the side of the wallet with my fingers so they wouldn’t fall out; just for the joke) Serge and I share a hearty laugh with this.

“You Americans... You are so funny with your visual humor...and that Jerry Lewis...c’est bien.”

He suggests a hotel about 5 blocks away on Avenue Duplex that is called the Duplex. He says it should be between 50 and 60 euros a night. “That would be perfect.” I say, as I once again turn my wallet upside down.

“Oh, monsieur. Stop it. You are killing me.” Cried Serge, grabbing his side as he places a glass of dessert wine in front of me before heading back to the kitchen.

As I sit here nursing my port I can look out the window and watch the late afternoon shadows grow long in the streets. Outside, Parisians of every size, shape and color walk by. Businessmen… students. Women with head scarves, some without. I’ve noticed a refreshing absence of baseball caps being worn, either backwards or forwards. Attractive Africans. Lots of baby strollers. I think the reason that I notice them (and this comes strictly from an L.A. perspective) is that they are being pushed by couples that are obviously the parents of the babies. You would think in a city as large as Paris there would be at least one Mexican housekeeper pushing someone else’s kid down the street. And of course; doggies.

I’ve only been here an hour and a half. Most of my observations come from inside the front window of a corner restaurant. None of these people know who I am or where I’m from. They don’t realize that as they go through the motions of their lives that they are, in fact, auditioning for me: that I am holding them up to some preconceived notions of what a Parisian should be and how they will treat me. I admit that I came with the expectations of people rude and indifferent tucked in the back of my mind. What I was seeing was something else. These were people that loved their children and embraced every opportunity to spend time with them. It was a place where an old couple, married for 50 years, still walked down the street holding hands. Where a black family from Ghana sat at a table and ate and drank and laughed next to a group of business men and women that had stopped in after work to eat and drink and laugh. Where dogs were man’s best friend and treated as if they really were. Where an American in Paris could be witness to such warmth and passion and kindness. I wish that I could have thanked them.

I suddenly realize that it was Feb. 29. It wasn’t the fact that it was Leap Year and Bonnie Sue Vinyl, my old nemesis from Isle of Hope Elementary School in Savannah, Georgia was celebrating her “11th” birthday today. Much more than that...tonight was the 76th Academy Awards. The Kodak Theatre would be in all its splendor and at Tom and Andi’s house in Sherman Oaks, someone other than me would be tabulating the votes of our friendly, yet competitive Oscar™ contest. It was just then that I realized that I not only wanted to be pampered a little after two long weeks on the road but I felt as if I had earned the privilege.

Sacre blu! I was going to do it! I was going to spend the next two nights at the Hilton! Just then Serge returns and I reach into my wallet and produce a handful of multi-colored euros. “Voila” I exclaim, “Tonight I will stay with Paris Hilton!” With that, Serge drops to one knee in a fit of hysterics. “Monsieur. I beg you to stop. I have...how you say...already lost a rib from laughing.” He cries as he pulls my credit card from the edge of the table and crawls to the cash register.

I gather up all my things; as I had taken out my trusty memo pad to write down the events of the train into Paris. I was beginning to develop an unhealthy paranoia (assuming that any paranoia could be healthy) about losing my notes. I have over 50 pages written that I hadn’t emailed yet and know I could never remember all the events of the trip if I left it somewhere. It became more important to me than my passport, which now that I think about it I have no idea where that is. No matter. Anyone can plainly tell that I am an American and that should see me through.

As I stand up Serge rushes over to assist me with my jacket. “Take care mon ami.” He says as he grabs me by the shoulders and plants a masculine kiss on each of my cheeks. With that, the entire kitchen staff and all the waiters come out to bid me adieu and to see me off on my first night in this enchanting city.

Ah, Paris: The “Boll Weevil Capitol of the World”.